Published at 20th of December 2025 8:43 am

Chapter 790: Phase Two

This chapter is updated by JustRead.pl

Snow still clung to Bruno’s greatcoat as he strode into the High Command war room, an unwelcome souvenir from the estate grounds he had walked minutes before.

The moment he entered, the room snapped into silence. The Generals of the Reich knew what that expression meant.

It was the face of a man who had already made a decision, and required the rest of the world to keep up.

Maps of the Mediterranean, North Africa, Sicily, and the Atlantic coast were pinned across the chamber.

Red arrows, blue markers, and black lines denoting railheads, port capacities, and fuel reserves. The room smelled of ink, sweat, coffee, and inevitability.

Bruno removed his gloves and placed them on the table.

"Gentlemen," he said, "we begin."

Field Marshal Sepp Dietrich straightened. Admiral Donitz folded his hands behind his back.

Even the seasoned officers from Mittelafrika, hardened by decades of colonial wars, leaned forward.

Bruno tapped Sicily on the map, specifically the Allied lodgement near Palermo.

"This," he said, "ends now."

A murmur of assent rippled across the table, though none dared speak until spoken to.

"For months," Bruno continued, "the Americans and their Latin pets have bled themselves white attempting to break our hold on the island. They believed the Mediterranean to be a contested sea."

His voice hardened.

"It is not, it is ours, and unbeknownst to them it always has been."

Field Marshal von Manstein cleared his throat. "Reichsmarschall... the Allied reinforcements are still arriving from Morocco and Algeria. Their airfields..."

Bruno interrupted with a raised hand.

"...will be ash by morning."

He gestured to an adjutant near the projector. The lights dimmed. A series of real-time satellite images flickered onto the projector. Clean, cold, and impossible by Allied standards.

American airbases at Casablanca, Oran, Tunis, and Algiers.Fighter strips, bomber dispersal fields, fuel storage, ammunition depots, control towers, and barracks.

These bases were the lifeline of the Allied Mediterranean offensive. One Bruno had allowed to grow uncontested. Bruno let the images hang in the stale air.

"Tonight," he said, "we strike all of them."

Field Marshal Erwin Rommel leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Strategic bombing? Or?"

"Tactical missiles," Bruno said. "The batteries in Sardinia and Crete are ready. And the jet bombers from Naples will hit secondary targets. Fuel farms. Communication hubs. Port cranes. By dawn, their entire logistical spine will be shattered."

Field Marshal von Bock nodded slowly, absorbing the scale of the plan.

"And Sicily?" he asked.

Bruno pointed at the meatgrinder, Palermo, the American salient, the attritional line that had consumed thousands.

"We do not push them back," Bruno said. "We encircle them."

A ripple of static passed through the room, the tension before a lightning strike.

He gestured again, and the map shifted. Now, arrows pointed inward from three directions: Central Powers Mountain Divisions advancing from the east, Mechanized assault brigades from the south, and airborne units prepared to deploy behind the American lines.

"They expect a direct confrontation," Bruno said. "They believe we are still playing defense."

He looked at the men around him.

"We are not."

General von Kleist folded his arms. "Your Highness, the terrain..."

"...will work for us," Bruno said. "The Americans have entrenched themselves in positions that are death traps once their supply lines collapse."

He paced the length of the table, every word gaining weight.

"They have no fuel reserves on the island. Their artillery is starving for shells. Their water supply is dangerously dependent on captured Sicilian infrastructure. And their hospitals are overflowing. They have stayed only because they believed reinforcements would arrive."

His gaze hardened.

"After tonight, nothing will arrive."

At that moment, the silence became absolute.

Bruno placed both palms flat on the table.

"Begin the offensive."

Von Bock saluted with a crispness that belied his age. "The order will be carried out immediately, Reichsmarschall."

But Bruno wasn’t finished.

He motioned for a second map to be unfurled, a wide Atlantic projection.

The officers exchanged glances. They had seen this map only in fragments. Never presented openly. Never accompanied by Bruno’s direct summons. This was something else.

Bruno spoke again, softly, but with enough force to bend iron.

"Once Sicily is secured," he said, "we move to Phase Two."

General Halder swallowed. "The Atlantic campaign?"

"The very same," Bruno replied. "By the end of this year, we begin preparations. By summer of ’42 at the latest, we cross the ocean."

The room nearly stopped breathing.

Admiral Raeder cleared his throat cautiously.

"Reichsmarschall... Are you suggesting an actual invasion of the American homeland? Such a thing would be suicidal!"

Bruno shook his head.

"Not an invasion. Not yet. We will not attempt to seize America itself. That would be folly."

He tapped Cuba, a small island dwarfed by the continents around it, yet highlighted in bold red.

"But we will let them believe we intend to."

Eyes widened.

"That," Bruno said, "is how we kill their morale. That is how we shatter the illusion their government has built. The American people continue to hold on, and obey their government even after all the chaos that is sprouting in their cities. Because they genuinely believe that they are winning, that their losses are minimal, that we are fractured. And that their suffering is temporary...."

He leaned closer over the Atlantic.

"We will stage in Cuba. Move carriers, long-range bombers, amphibious groups, and missile batteries. Enough firepower to suggest a continental landing is imminent."

General Jodl frowned. "Won’t Roosevelt simply reassure the public?"

Bruno’s laugh was cold and brief.

"He has reassured them for years... and they are finally beginning to see through him. Detroit proved that. The riots will spread like fire across dry wheat once they understand the truth beyond their petty little world."

He straightened.

"When the American people see German fleets in Havana, when they see missiles pointed at Miami and Charleston, when they hear German broadcasts on shortwave across their eastern seaboard... they will understand what Washington has hidden."

He raised two fingers.

"One: that their casualties in Sicily were not in the thousands but the hundreds of thousands."

"Two: that their bases in North Africa have been obliterated."

"And three: that the Reich and all its allies remain intact, stronger, and closer to their shores than they ever imagined."

Jeschonnek exhaled slowly.

"You intend to make panic the weapon."

"No," Bruno corrected. "I intend to let truth be the weapon. Panic is merely the delivery system."

He stepped away from the table and approached the large window overlooking Berlin.

Snowflakes drifted past the glass, illuminated by the lights of a city that had come to accept war as a rhythm of life.

"Roosevelt has lied to them," Bruno said quietly. "Lied about their strength. Lied about their position. Lied about their chances. America survives not on courage but on delusion."

He turned back.

"Our task is not to destroy America. It is to strip away its mask."

Wilhelm was not present, but the echo of his earlier question still hung in the air:

What happens when the Union shatters completely?

Bruno answered now, to the room at large.

"It will break," he said. "Not because we push, but because the pressure within it will tear it apart. We merely accelerate the clock."

He tapped the Atlantic map again.

"Two years before this war began, the Werwolf Group was inserted across Latin America. By now they have trained an army under the noses of Roosevelt’s puppets. From Havana to Rio, revolutionaries of every color and creed are just waiting for the signal to rise up and overthrow their masters."

A pause.

"And," Bruno added lightly, "Soon they will be called to arms. When the Latin American countries realize that their own cities are under siege, the Allied Powers will shatter, and every nation will turn inward to defend itself."

Kesselring allowed himself a short nod.

"It is bold."

"It is necessary."

Bruno clasped his hands behind his back.

"Make no mistake," he said. "Tonight’s offensive in Sicily is not merely a battle. It is the beginning of the end of America’s illusions."

His voice softened, though the menace in it never faded.

"Tonight we cut their throat on the island. Tomorrow we burn their airfields. And next year..."

His eyes sharpened into something primal.

"...next year we make the Americans remember to fear what lies beyond the horizon. For too long they have been blessed with peace, and serenity that the Atlantic and Pacific oceans have afforded them. But that time has come to an end...."

The room remained deathly still.

"Generals," Bruno said, "carry out your orders."

One by one, the men saluted and hurried out of the war room, each already issuing rapid-fire instructions to subordinates.

The lights flickered as encrypted communication networks activated. Strategic bomber wings were awakened from standby.

Missile crews in Sardinia and Crete began pre-launch sequences. Sicily’s armored divisions roared to life under the cold Mediterranean night.

Bruno remained alone at the map table.

He watched the red arrows.

He watched the coastline of America.

He watched the ocean between them.

And with a slow exhale, he finally whispered to himself:

"It begins."

Share